


undeclared

by myrkks



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 01:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrkks/pseuds/myrkks
Summary: He knows if he looks, she’ll be all grit and starlight, blood smeared across her cheek and light reflecting off her hair, her skin, her eyes.  He knows if he looks she’ll be beautiful — so he doesn't look.--soma drabbles and one shots, mostly from tumblr





	1. post-fight hurt/comfort (t)

“You’re an idiot,” Soul tells her, a lump in his throat; his fingers skirt light across the length of her shin, minding the large, bloody slice that’s been cut off her leg.  She’d been deceptively fine on the walk home, if quiet, too quiet, but now — he swallows, leaning back on his heels.  
  
“There was no avoiding it,” Maka retorts, leaning back against their cabinets.  She looks like a queen from her place on their dirty kitchen counter, surrounded by unwashed mugs and the coffee grinds he’d spilled by accident this morning.  There’s that same air to her as always: perfect, untouchable, unclaimable.  She can’t be his.  She couldn't be.  
  
He presses a warm cloth against her wound and tries not to wince when she does.  “There’s always avoiding it,” he argues, caught between wanting to argue and wanting to soothe her.  It kills him to see Maka hurt; if there’s any way he can convince her to be more careful, he will — but he can’t stop thinking about how she’d shaken like a leaf when he’d let go of her waist to get their door open, framed in moonlight and the Nevada heat.  
  
It’s telling of how she’s feeling that she doesn't respond, and Soul tends to his work with careful intention and careful hands.  He aches to touch her, just her thigh, or her knuckles — but instead he stays down on his knees, silent and still aside from the press of his hands.  Clean the wound for debris, then clean it again, then antibiotic, then bandages, then more bandages, to make sure she doesn’t kick them off in her sleep.  She’d struggled before when they were kids, complained at his touch and the blood and her wound; but now she locks carefully into place, teeth gritted, eyes closed, waiting for it to be over.  
  
He aches to touch her, but not like this.  
  
Her eyes open when Soul rises slowly to his feet; he leans heavy against the counter next to her, head down, hands folded in front of him.  He knows if he looks, she’ll be all grit and starlight, blood smeared across her cheek and light reflecting off her hair, her skin, her eyes.  He knows if he looks she’ll be beautiful — so he doesn't look.  
  
Maka places a hand on his shoulder, pressure barely there.  “Hey,” she says hesitantly, and it’s such an unfamiliar tone for her that he nearly winces, “I’m okay, you know?  We’re okay.”  
  
The lump in his throat threatens to choke him.  “Yeah,” he breathes, inching closer to get an arm around her waist again, “Yeah, we’re okay.”  
  
She has less energy now and it shows, and she makes a strange, scrunched up face when he touches her wrist that makes him think it might be sprained.  But he keeps himself from voicing it as they shamble together to her bedroom, making their way easily in the dark through the familiar halls of their apartment.  
  
When he carefully drops her on her bed, she grabs for his hand.  “Soul — “ she starts, voice dropping in the middle.  Her hand drops, too, falling lifelessly back to the mattress.  He watches her with a heavy mix of love and terror in his heart.  
  
Maka is too good, too pretty, too perfect to be here.  To be _here_ , with him, in their dingy apartment with the coffee grounds on the counter, where their house plants are dying in the front room and the air conditioner breaks every summer.  She’s too good looking at him with that same love and fear reflected back at him, her shoulders hunched, knuckles white, scared in the dark.  She’s too good to want him.  
  
But she does.  “Are you tired?” she asks, ducking her head, and it’s too dark for him to see the flush across her face, but he’s seen it enough times by now to know.  “You can stay, if you’re tired.”  
  
 _I love you_ , he wants to tell her.  _I’d do anything for you_ , he wants to tell her.  _If something happened to you, something serious, I would never forgive myself, and nothing could ever fix that hole in my heart_ , he wants to tell her.  But in the moonlight, the Nevada heat, she knows that and she knows him; so instead he puts a knee on the mattress, takes her hand, and says, “Okay, I’ll stay.”


	2. goodwill hunting (g)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> skadventuretime said:
> 
> "for the short prompts, what about 'whatever, it's not like i'll actually wear it.' whatever character(s)/pairing u want!"

Stuffed between the crowded racks of Goodwill, Soul all but bakes in the dense summer heat, wiping sweat from his brow as he diligently keeps digging through the men’s pants section.  It won’t take too long to get through, anyway; the selection today seems to be made entirely of items about thirty sizes too big for him, and it’s hard to find pants even in department stores that cover his ankles.  
  
He picks his head up when he hears Maka gasp, “Soul, _look_ ,” and peeks over baskets of belts and mittens on the top of the rack to see her.  
  
Maka’s eyes are sparkling, a grin halfway between angel-pretty and viciously triumphant smeared across her face.  In her hands is the ugliest pair of trousers Soul has ever seen in his life: a slim waist and giant, tapered leg, patterned with plaid and little bunnies in the red, black, and white color scheme which had so strongly dominated both of their teenage years.  
  
Horror rests in his gut like a bad meal.  “Absolutely _not_ ,” he hisses.  
  
Maka pouts at him, coming around the bend into the men’s section to practically shove the pants into his arms.  “I think they're kinda cute,” she asserts, and he stares at her with wide eyes, unable to discern if she’s fucking with him.  “They’re very… 2005-chic.  I could see twelve year old Soul wearing these.”  
  
He wishes he had more of an argument for that.  “Okay,” he allows, not missing the way Maka’s face lights up, “but _current_ Soul thinks that you are morally and fashionably obligated to put those back in the hellscape you found them in.  Are you really willing to spend five dollars on those?”  
  
She grins and he feels like he’s fallen into a pit-trap.  “Green tag,” she chirps, yanking the waistband down to reveal the tag color of the day, “It’s one dollar, baby.”  
  
His heart does not jump into his throat because she calls him “baby”; it does _not_.  Weakly, he argues, “Maka, you would never wear these.”  
  
She doesn't even pause.  “I’ll cosplay as you for Halloween,” she answers sweetly.  
  
Soul needs a nap.  “Fuck you,” he responds, listening to the chattering laugh of his partner as he turns back to the too-big jeans in front of him, a flush high on his face.


	3. emotional makeouts (t/m)

She’s so pretty.  
  
She’s always been pretty, but it’s different, now; they’ve morphed from quiet companionship to quiet intimacy to something unfamiliar and unsaid, all tangled hands and tangled legs, whispered words in the dark, light kisses pressed to cheeks and foreheads and lips.  She makes this expression, sometimes, after he kisses her: bright and wide-eyed, a pink flush and a question — and he lurches forward in his rush to answer it, rubbing circles against her skin, resting a hand on her waist, pressing her back against their hallway as he ducks his head toward hers.  
  
In a very real way he’d never thought he’d get to do this, even when he’d known the ways she looked at him and thought of him, felt her longing like an ache in his own heart — because he is himself and something dark itches under his skin, and he’s never seen a light brighter than hers.  He doesn't think he ever will.  He doesn't want to.  
  
Her lips part as she gasps against his mouth and it is at this point that he remembers that they’re kissing.  His thumb brushes against the skin on her hip, underneath her t-shirt, and he freezes — but she pulls tight at his collar and yanks him closer, other hand reaching to swing open her door.  
  
When they fall in together, he’s already fallen, can see it in the way his hands shake and his breath catches tight, heart pounding in his chest like it wants to be closer.  She lays back on the bed, weight on her elbows, and he stalls at the uncertain look at her face until she beckons him closer and cups a hand along the line of his jaw.  
  
“Can I — I want to leave my shirt on,” she says, and she’s clearly going for firm, but there’s a waver in the back of her voice.  He twists his head to press a kiss to her wrist.  
  
“Okay,” he answers, more raw than he’d expected.  He joins her on the bed, halfway on top of her, places a hand on hers and hovers his mouth over her collarbone.  
  
“Okay?” he asks, and doesn't think about feeling stupid for repeating himself, and she nods so quickly that her sharp chin jabs into the top of his head, and without complaint he bends to trace his mouth along the curve of her neck.  
  
She’s so pretty, so soft; she sounds so pretty under his hands and his mouth.  He can’t stop thinking about it, even with his eyes closed: the way her freckles are showing up again in the summer sun, the way her hair had looked the previous night at Kid’s party.  She’s so pretty.  
  
“You’re really pretty,” he mumbles against her skin, and he’s halfway between nerves and instinct at this point, a hint of a smile yanking at his mouth when he hears her breath hitch.  “You really are.”  
  
She hesitates a long moment and he stays still on top of her, nuzzling his nose against her shoulder.  Then, carefully, she tangles their fingers together.  
  
“Soul,” she whispers, a question in it, “Kiss me.”  
  
Maka’s eyes are so green, so earnest; he’s never seen a light brighter than hers.  He doesn't ever want to.  
  
“Okay,” he says, as if though he would ever say no; and even when her eyes flutter shut, he feels their light warm in his heart.  His thumb brushes her cheekbone, and he takes one more long look at her before leaning forward to kiss her.


End file.
